Son of a Gun

Questions about his own past withdrew to the back corners of Damien’s mind as the focus of his attention shifted to the more immediate concern of aiding the mystery woman and child.

He didn’t fully buy the ditched-car story, though he couldn’t come up with any more logical reason for her to be out in his pasture on a night like this.

It didn’t matter at this point. The woman and the baby needed help. Even if she was lying, he had no choice but to take them home with him.

* * *

EMMA STUDIED THE COWBOY walking beside her. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jawline, a classic nose and hair that jutted out over his forehead from beneath a worn Western hat. Masculine. Virile.

Protective. She’d never appreciated that quality in a man more than she did right now.

Hopefully he wasn’t the overly inquisitive kind. If he did ask questions, she’d have no choice but to elaborate on her original lie. If she told the truth, he’d call the cops.

Not that she wouldn’t like to sic the law on Julio, but publicity of any kind would make it that much easier for Caudillo to find her.

“You picked a bad night for traveling,” Damien said. “The bridges and overpasses are all slick and icy.”

“I didn’t expect it to turn this bad when I left home.” That was the understatement of a lifetime. She’d left last March, expecting a week in paradise. She’d gotten ten months in hell.

“Where are you from?” Damien asked.

“Originally or now?”

“Now.”

“Victoria, Texas.” Another lie, but she’d heard someone in the trailer mention it and she knew it was south of Houston.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Nashville,” she said, this time answering truthfully. She hadn’t lived there since…since the last major upheaval in her life.

The smell of burning wood grew stronger. She hadn’t imagined it earlier. A few minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of smoke rising from three chimneys that accentuated the steep lines of a multi-gabled roof.

The house was two-storied and sprawled out in several directions, as if it had stretched over the open land like creeping phlox.

“Who owns the ranch?” she asked as they drew nearer.

“The Lamberts.”

He surely wasn’t a Lambert, not wearing the tattered leather jacket he’d lent her. More likely he was just a working cowboy. “Where do you live?”

“You’re looking at it.”

That surprised her. “Do you and your wife have children?”

“Nope. No children. No wife, either.”

“So, how many people live in the house?”

“Six when we’re all present and accounted for.”

“That sounds like a houseful.”

“Always room for one more.”

“I won’t be staying,” she said quickly. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride to the nearest motel. Any will do.”

“You’re nowhere near a motel, and you’d be hard-pressed to find transportation into town tonight. Even if you could, I wouldn’t recommend it. You might end up worse than merely in a ditch. Besides, there’s plenty of room here.”

As they approached the house, she was even more awed by its sheer size. But that wasn’t all it had going for it.

A large glass-enclosed porch extended across part of the back of the house. The lamps were turned on and their soft glow fell across sofas, rockers, hooked rugs, potted plants and baskets in all shapes and sizes. A round table in the middle of the room held a huge winter arrangement of greenery, berries and cones.

To the left of that was a covered entryway that led into the house, and to the left of that were wide, uncovered windows that opened into a massive kitchen filled with people. Evidently, they were enjoying a late dinner.

Damien stopped at the base of a winter-bare oak near the back of the house. He took the reins and looped them over a low branch, securing the horse before reaching to help Emma dismount.

Anxiety swelled inside her. There would surely be questions. They’d know she was lying. They might just call the sheriff and have him come pick her up. All it would take was a fingerprint check and then there would be no hiding from the glare of the media.

Woman Kidnapped While Vacationing in the Caribbean Islands Escapes, the headline would read.

No one escaped Caudillo and lived to tell about it.

Damien’s touch was firm but gentle. “Relax,” he said, obviously sensing her nervousness. “The Lamberts can be a cantankerous bunch, but they don’t bite. You’re safe.”

Safe. Even the sound of the word made her breath catch. But the safety Damien or the Lamberts could provide was only temporary, little more than an illusion.

* * *

SURPRISINGLY, THE ANXIETY eased the second Emma stepped into the kitchen. The warmth, the odors, the easy chatter and laughter among the people gathered around the scarred oak farmhouse table was the total opposite of what she’d lived with for much of the past year.

“We have company,” Damien said, interrupting chatter that was so noisy no one had heard them come in through the mudroom and walk to the kitchen door.

Heads raised and immediately all pairs of eyes focused on Emma and Belle. Belle began to wiggle and fuss, sputtering cries that were likely the prelude to full-fledged bawling.

The two men pushed back from the table and stood in true Texas cowboy gentleman fashion. An attractive middle-age woman at the head of the table looked up. Her piercing gaze met with Emma’s, and Emma’s whisper of reprieve took a nosedive.

This was not a woman who’d be a pushover for Emma’s lies. Nor would she welcome trouble into the midst of her family.

“This is Emma Smith,” Damien said. “She drove up from Victoria to visit her aunt. Somehow she took a wrong turn and ended up on the logging road that runs parallel to Beaver Creek.”

“What were you driving, a tank?” one of the men questioned. “The holes in that road would swallow a normal vehicle.”

“Apparently one of them did,” Damien explained. “The car is now likely sinking like quicksand.”

Emma breathed easier. The explanation sounded far more feasible coming from Damien. She’d always been a rotten liar.

“Thankfully, I wandered into your pasture hoping to find help, and Damien came along,” Emma said.